When Luke suggested we sit and count stars the following Friday, I was suspicious. You normally find stars outside, after all. But then he showed up at my house with a projector.
We’re lying on my bed like soldiers, arms by our sides, legs together, too afraid to touch, and watching space swirl around on my ceiling. It’s impossible to count the stars, there are so many, flickering like diamonds on a black backdrop.
My iPod is on shuffle. Rock chicks have been commandeering the airwaves for an hour, but then some dude starts strumming his guitar and, with a soft voice, begins singing about holding the girl he loves. My concentration abandons the stars and I focus hard on the lyrics of the love song, the love song with lines that, somehow, speak directly to my current situation.
The invisible barrier between us . . .
The ache in my heart . . .
The burn of constant curiosity . . .
‘I got you something,’ Luke says, twisting his body and leaning over the side of the bed. While he’s reaching, his shirt lifts and I can see the bottom of his back. I swallow lumps.
I’m supposed to protest, I know that for sure, because I see it happen all the time on TV. Though I’m not sure why anyone would want to object to a present. That’s a thing I’d like to figure out, but my brain is too busy inspecting the sliver of exposed flesh. Luke has freckles. I’ve never been close enough to his skin to see freckles before.
‘Check it out.’ Luke lies back, and my stare charges towards the ceiling. He hands me a book. Not a book. A journal. The cover is coated in pictures. It’s shiny. Silky smooth. My fingers skate idly over an image of the Arc de Triomphe, the Latona Fountain, the Eiffel Tower, and half a dozen other famous structures in France.
‘It’s like a journal,’ Luke tells me, opening it to the first page. ‘But it has a travel planner in the back.’ He flips through more lined light blue pages, stops at a group of white sheets coated in plastic. ‘You can keep photographs in this part. Or maybe postcards. And then this section here is a directory, with every number you could ever need.’ I watch him flip through the rest of the journal. The excitement in his smile is immeasurable. ‘I thought you could use it when you go to school in France.’
‘I love it,’ I tell him. ‘Thank you so much.’
I do love it. Really, I do, which is why I can’t understand the bolt of hostility that shoots through me when he says France. He’s so thoughtful, and I’m super-grateful, but my mind is unsettled.
Luke talks about Paris, about art, about maybe dumping his no-travel policy for a week to visit the Louvre and see the Mona Lisa. My head spins. He keeps asking me what I think. Asking me if I’ve ever seen this online? Or that online? Seen them online? Seen it online? Seen her online? Or him online? In conclusion, my life is all about things that can be found on the web, and yes is the only word I can contribute to this conversation.
The sound of Luke breathing beside me is melodic. I copy the rhythm, force my lungs to slow down.
He’s just talking. Dreaming. Dreaming for both of us. I smile to myself, squash hostility with happy. Reclaim the normal night we’re having.
The warmth of my room mixed with the low light makes me sleepy.
My eyes are getting heavy when Luke’s pinkie brushes against the side of my hand. I stiffen. At first I think it’s a mistake, but then I feel it a second time.
‘Is this okay?’ The bed shifts, he turns his head, and I turn to meet his face. He’s drenched in starlight, practically sparkling. There’s only inches between us. I can smell spearmint on his breath. My body bursts into flames.
We’re not wearing matching sweaters or strolling through a fall landscape, but I imagine kissing him now would be perfect. I look at his lips. They’re parted, just a little. It would be so easy to tighten the gap between us and press my mouth against his.
Except: petri dishes, full of little alien life forms that live on the human tongue. Then this morning, I was flicking through my Hub feed, and this one guy from Cardinal was talking about having glandular fever. Viruses spread like wildfire in schools. Their school. His school. As much as I want to, I can’t forget that.
His pinkie meets my hand now, draws circles on the side. Pins and needles explode in the pit of my stomach, and shivers, good shivers, the kind you get when something exciting happens, shoot up and down my spine. I can’t pull away.
‘Norah.’ I like the shape his lips make when he says my name. ‘Will you be my girlfriend?’
Blink-blink. ‘What?’
He smiles. ‘Will you be my girlfriend?’ I float up and up and up, get lost in the makeshift galaxy on my ceiling. My heart feels like it’s trying to box its way beyond my ribcage.
Yes. I think it so loud it’s a wonder he doesn’t hear it.
But this is me. Nothing is ever easy. I guess every story needs a villain, and never one to be outdone by something as silly as a heartbeat, my brain kicks back, harder. I come crashing down to earth.
And just like that, my bed becomes bottomless. I’m sinking through the floor, Luke’s dreams and aspirations fall from the starry sky and slam into my chest.
I’ve been searching for an opening to talk to him all week. The idea that he should have been somewhere else tonight plagues me.
‘Answer me something honestly first?’ I say, sitting up on my elbow. He frowns at me. I’d frown at me too. I’m brutally massacring his romantic moment. I don’t mean to, don’t want to, but practicality is pressing. There are questions in my head and the threat of gnawed fingernails is fast approaching.
‘Do you miss kissing?’ Granted, I’m kind of going in from an obscure angle, but I figure missing out on a concert/movie/trip to the circus/whatever is small fry, easy to dismiss in comparison to a kiss. He might be able to catch a concert/movie/trip to the circus/whatever next time. He’s not going to be able to catch another girl’s lips so easily.
‘Where did that come from?’ he says.
‘Just thinking . . .’ I shrug as casually as I can muster. ‘Do you?’
‘Honestly?’
Casual quits on me. I climb off the bed, pace while I consider writing honesty off as overrated. No. I need to hear the end of this conversation. Mom was right; he needs to understand just how many limitations are hanging over him.
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘No, I don’t. But I do think about kissing you every time I’m with you. I’m kind of looking forward to the day that’s okay.’
‘What if . . .’ I say, perching on the edge of my bed only to stand back up a second later because all my muscles have been replaced by jumping beans. ‘What if you’re waiting a really long time? It’s unreasonable for me to expect that from you, isn’t it?’
‘It’s unreasonable for you to expect me not to kiss anyone else? You realize I quite like you, right? And that I have this crazy new built-in thing the kids are calling self-control?’
He’s missed my point. He thinks I’m questioning his capability instead of the commitment. A swarm of bees wakes up inside my skull.
‘I don’t want to be with anyone else, Norah.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’ I can’t explain; my mind isn’t putting sentences together properly.
‘Wait. Is this about the party invite on my Hub wall?’ He side-eyes me.
‘Party invite?’ I haven’t been on social media since this morning. There was no invite then.
‘You haven’t seen it?’
‘No.’
He sits up. ‘Can I borrow your cell?’ His is still being fixed.
‘Sure.’ I grab it off the side table, hand it over, slightly embarrassed by its ancient appearance. My mom sells bricks that are more discreet.
‘I thought maybe you were worrying,’ Luke says as he punches buttons. He shows me the screen.
It’s his Hub page. The last post is a colourful upload inviting him to the Fall Ball at Cardinal High. Of course the invite is from Amy. Committee Chair has replaced the Queen in her user handle.
‘You don’t have to worry. I’m not going,’ he says. I think if he could, he’d pull me back down on the bed and wrap me in a hug. At the bottom of his invite, there are almost a hundred comments from dudes that call him bro and chicks that sign their names with an XO. They’re all talking about how much fun this thing will be.
‘You can’t miss this party,’ I say, successfully suppressing all reluctance, though it does leave a bitter taste on my tongue. ‘You can’t stop doing things because of me,’ I tell him. I perch on my bed but have to stand for a second time, because nothing says ‘serious discussion’ like a game of musical chairs. ‘We’re different. I have limits, you don’t. We can’t pretend that’s not a thing. I’m afraid if we do, you’re going to start feeling shackled to me . . .’
‘That’s not going to happen,’ he argues lightly.
‘If we’re not careful, that is exactly what is going to happen.’
‘Norah, it’s one party. If it makes you happy, I’ll just go to the next one,’ he replies, but he’s stopped smiling. I think maybe he’s starting to understand what I’m saying.
‘What about your call last week?’ I say it quietly, hope it lessens the impact. ‘I heard you talking on the way back from the bathroom.’
The part where I’ve invaded his privacy seems to go unnoticed. His face crumples like he’s been hit by a sudden stomach cramp. ‘I forgot about that.’
‘Would you have gone if you weren’t with me?’
He straightens his shoulders. ‘But I am with you, and I love hanging out here with you. I love talking to you, and eating ice cream with you. I love watching cheesy horror movies and staring at the stars with you. J’adore that I can now speak eight whole words of French,’ he says, all smug. ‘Pretty soon I’ll be fluent.’ I crack a smile, can’t help it. ‘I’d rather hang out with you than go to any concert or party.’
He’s so sweet. So nice. It pains me to press on with this and shatter the sentiment. I continue pacing.
‘Humour me for just a second?’ I’m a little breathless, so he doesn’t argue. I’m wearing holes in my carpet. ‘If you hadn’t met me, would you have gone?’
He groans, falls face first on to my bed.
‘Yes, probably. I probably would have gone. But—’
‘And the party?’ I interject. I have to get this out. Clear the air so we can move on. ‘You’d be going to that too, right?’
‘I don’t know; maybe. They’re all pretty much the same, those things.’
‘But you’d go?’ I repeat, jaw tight. For the first time since we met, he’s looking at me like I’m about to go Carrie White on his ass. I’m not; I just need him to see how bad this will be if he stops going out, hanging with his friends, cuts himself off because of me.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I would.’
‘Right. So you have to go. Don’t you see? You can’t not go places because I’m not going.’
‘But I love your company.’
‘And I love yours. But if you stop doing things because I won’t be there, you’re going to end up feeling trapped here.’
‘Norah, come and sit down. Take some deep breaths with me for a minute?’
I do as he asks because I am feeling a little lightheaded. Not sure if it’s panic or exercise making me feel this way, though. I sit on the bed and he watches me inhale and exhale. It hurts to see him bury his hands beneath his knees because he’s trying not to reach for me.
‘I’ll go to the party,’ he says. ‘But I can come and see you immediately after, right?’
‘Yes. Yes. You absolutely can. If I’m going to be your girlfriend—’
‘Wait,’ he interjects, grinning from ear-to-ear. ‘You’re going to be my girlfriend?’
‘Yes. If you can promise me you won’t hold back just because I can’t do a thing.’
‘I promise,’ he says, and his pinkie, as light as a feather, draws a heart on the side of my hand.